It was the pigeons that awakened me. A
flock of them roosted just outside the basement window I had crawled through the night before to get out of a cold rain. The
gentle cooing had lulled me to sleep and tempered the fitful dreams that kept me tossing and turning all night. They scattered
with a thundering of wings as the C.O.P.S units started their first sweep. I must have been tired or slow that morning because
I was only halfway out the window when the first C.O.P. crashed through the door. I glanced back as I swung one leg over the
sill and got a foot planted in the alley outside. The silver dome of the sweeper’s CPU housing gleamed in a shaft of
sunlight filtering down through the grimy upper windows of the old department store basement. It scrambled forward on six
multi-jointed legs that supported a heavy padded manipulator arm and a rear detention cage. It was fast and agile, but not
too bright. It climbed easily over the piles of debris that littered the floor and managed to get a grip on my boot. I could
feel the insistent pressure of its padded steel manipulator as it tried to draw me back through the window.

"Allow me to assist you, sir," it said in its best let-us-reason-together voice.

Having
learned from hard experience that one cannot reason with a machine, I slipped off the boot and rolled out into the alley.
The sweeper reached through the window with its manipulator but I dodged out of reach behind a recycling collection bin. My
foot skidded on a patch of pigeon shit and I went down just as the padded steel claw passed over my head. Despite the nasty
slickness that now coated the bottom of my sock, I made a mental note to be especially nice to pigeons for the next few days.

The manipulator flexed back and gripped the worn sill of the window. It strained to lift the sweeper off of the basement
floor; a fully equipped C.O.P. sweeper unit weighs in at about 300 kilos, not exactly a lightweight despite its speed and
mobility. The worn wooden framing collapsed and the sweeper fell heavily back to the concrete below. I didn't wait around
for its next attempt to climb out the window. It would have alerted its backup units by now anyway. I had to move.

The alley was still deep in shadows, the early morning sun lighting only the north wall. The cool air, still damp
with last night's rain, smelled of wet concrete and rotting vegetables. The Public Works cleaning servos in this sector
were busy enough with the main streets; the alleys got washed down only once a week or so. This one ran east to west between
State and Wabash. I could hear the rumble
of a C.O.P.S. hovercraft to the east, over on Wabash so I headed toward the State Street end.

For
once things seemed to be going my way. The weekend Farmers Market was gearing up and the State Street Mall was full of Normies
eager for their fresh fruit fix. I used my size, or rather my lack of it, to disappear into the crowd. The market was one
of the few truly crowded places allowed to exist in the city. Several hundred produce stalls jammed the Mall from Washington
down to Jackson and roving vendors with carts milled up and down through the crowd hawking their wares. It was all perfectly
safe and sanitized for the Normies, but it gave them the illusion of a spontaneous shopping experience. Most of the farmers
were shills for the big corporate farms downstate, paid performers who shucked and jived as they pushed the cream of their
employer's crops (at premium prices, of course). The roving vendors were the genuine article, although even they were
carefully licensed and monitored by the Department of Public Safety. Serious shopping for a Normie meant a trip to the VR
Mall. Still, some liked the illusion of old fashioned browsing through real goods. The Farmers Markets scattered around the
city filled that need.

This was the Old Town section of the Loop. The block long department stores
had been restored to their mid-20th century appearance even though they had long since been converted to upscale offices and
gentrified apartments. I wormed my way deeper into the center of the throng. The crowd kept the hovercraft stuck above Washington,
so I only had to watch for foot patrol units. I stopped for a moment to catch my breath, going with the flow as the taller
crowd milled about. The view from where I stood was limited to a below-the-belt perspective, not the best way to size up a
middle-aged Normie. But I figured it would keep the C.O.P.S. infrared and optical recognition circuits from picking my mug
out of the background.

Now, I don't blame the Normie housewife for not seeing me. I don't
even mind her stomping on my bare toes. But she didn't have to scream when she looked down and saw what she had stepped
on. I seem to have that effect on nice white ladies from up the lake. Her scream attracted the C.O.P.S. and I was off and
running again. I pushed my way through the crowd. They bleated and complained as I kicked and shoved, trying to clear a path.
That attracted even more attention and the C.O.P.S. began to zero in on the disturbance.

I
stumbled into a clear spot, one of those spontaneous openings that occur in the random mingling of masses of people. At the
edge of the clearing a roving vendor pushed a large produce cart filled with watermelons. The vendor was as surprised to see
me pop out of the crowd as I was to stumble into the old bicycle wheels that held up his cart. His momentum carried him forward
and one of the wheels rolled over my still smarting toes. I let out a yell and said some words that violated several public
decency ordinances. That was enough to pinpoint my location.

"Halt," the flat
mechanical voice of the C.O.P. arrest unit rang out, no pretense of reasonableness in it. "Stand where you are. You are
in violation of City Ordinance 127/81. You will stand by for arrest and processing."

I
turned to run and found my sock stuck under the wheel of the watermelon cart. I suppose I should have slipped out of the sock,
but I'd already lost a boot and these were my only socks without holes. Besides, I'd been pushed around since I woke
up and hadn't even had breakfast yet. I reached out and pushed on the rim of the wheel. I only wanted to move it aside
and retrieve my sock. Instead, the rusted cotter pin that held the wheel to the axle broke. The vendor pushed again on the
cart, trying to get out of the way of the approaching arrest unit. The wheel wobbled a bit, and then fell off. The cart went
down hard on its side. The thin wooden frame shattered and watermelons tumbled onto the pavement. Rolling green instruments
of chaos and destruction sent Normies skidding and sliding to the ground in a jumble of arms and legs and sticky pink juice.
I rolled under the remains of the cart and took off running again.

I had only taken a few
steps before I was scooped up and deposited head first into a warm box. Actually, it was a downright hot box and I was about
to say so when a thick hand clamped across my mouth and a voice whispered in my ear, "Keep quiet. The heat will confuse
their infrared sensors."

I had enough sense to lay low. I tucked my knees up to my chin
and tried to ease the pressure on my back as it pressed into the hot aluminum side of my refuge. The heat was stifling. In
a few seconds, I was gasping for air and wet to the skin with sweat. The space was tight. I felt the beginnings of my usual
panic at being confined but the threat of the C.O.P.S. outside held it in check. The box had wheels; I could feel it moving
and thumping gently over irregularities in the pavement. A cry of "Chestnuts" from my unseen benefactor and the
crinkling of small paper bags under my back solved the minor mystery of where I was hidden.

My
discomfort grew. I could feel my heartbeat increase. My mind began to lose focus as my muscles cried out with the need to
move right now. Just as I was about to pop the lid for a breath of air, C.O.P.S. or no C.O.P.S., a mechanical voice boomed
off of the walls of my box.

"Halt, Citizen," it said. "This unit requests
your assistance."

"Certainly, Officer," said the chestnut man. "How can I
help?"

"This unit is seeking a fugitive who was last detected moving in this direction. This unit requests your assistance
in locating said fugitive under section 12, article 41 of the criminal code. Failure to comply may result in arrest and detention."

The Computer Operated Patrol System arrest unit was properly thorough in its request and in its thinly veiled threat.
I held my breath waiting for the answer, ready to spring and run.

"This unit seeks a male youth of dark
coloring and dark curly hair of medium length. Height: approximately one meter. Weight: approximately 40 kilograms. Last seen
wearing a dark blue jacket and tan work coverall, one dark ankle length boot with serrated rubber sole and one red stocking.
The fugitive has the typical facial characteristics of Viral Hyperteloric Dwarfism. He is tentatively identified as Horacio
Guzman, citizenship rating DP. A warrant has been filed with the Municipal Database requesting his arrest and detention."

"A Denver Dwarf with one shoe on and one shoe off?" The vendor chuckled. "No, I'd certainly remember
a sight like that. What's he wanted for? Murder? Armed robbery? Public ugliness?" The vendor burst into a loud belly
laugh.

"The fugitive is wanted by the Department of Human Services for unlawful welfare evasion." the mech intoned
solemnly, “Your amusement is a serious breach of proper citizenship norms. Have you seen the person this unit seeks?"

"No. No," answered the vendor. "I have not seen such a person." He controlled his laughter with
some effort and went on, "Please excuse my lack of decorum."

There
was a brief pause as the C.O.P unit checked the DNA fingerprint bonded to Citizen Sleazer's ID card and accessed the Municipal
Database for his records. Then it said, "Very well, sir. Your license and records are in order, although you are reminded
that your municipal water bill is due today. This unit thanks you for your cooperation."

Charlie
exhaled audibly as the mech moved off into the crowd. The box began moving again and the crowd noise lessened. The lid popped
open admitting a breath of cooler air. My first sight of Charlie was of his right hand. A remarkable hand, thick and meaty
with a twisted middle finger.

"Keep your head down," he murmured as the hand rummaged
in the bags of chestnuts and picked up two. "There may be more of them about. Let me check it out."

The hand withdrew and I could hear him moving away. He left the lid open, so at least I had some air and could see
the sky. My panic subsided to mere apprehension. I picked up a bag of nuts to give myself something to do and distract my
mind from my confinement. I had eaten two or three when I heard him return.

"OK, you
can come out now." he said softly.

I raised my head and took a deep breath of cool
air. I turned my head slightly from side to side in the manner of my kind in order to get a full view of his face. With a
broad brow, high cheekbones and deeply pockmarked skin, it could not be called a good-looking face. It would have been rather
sinister if not for the good humor in the black eyes and the gentle voice.

"Not very
big, are you?" he said, grinning suddenly.

"No, and my eyes are too far apart
and my nose is too flat and I have a weak jaw and am obviously mentally defective. And you are possibly the ugliest person
next to myself that I have ever seen. Any other comments?" I pulled myself out of the box and dropped to the ground.
Charlie said nothing.

"Well," I huffed. "I'd like nothing better than to stand
here and trade insults with a talking ape but I've got places to go. Thanks for dumping me in that rolling oven of yours.
I can't think of when I've had a better time."

I stalked off as defiantly
as I could in one boot. I know, I know; that was no way to talk to someone who had just helped me out of a tight spot. I was
even less fond of the city welfare homes than of Charlie's oven. But he shouldn't have mentioned my size. I'm
the only one with that privilege.

I was born in Denver just after the Plague. That simple statement
has defined and constricted my life for as long as I can remember. Of course, to anyone who sees me on the street, the time
and place of my birth are immediately obvious. But even mentioning the Plague causes most people to form an image of me. An
image tinged with pity, perhaps, or sometimes revulsion, but always the same picture.

It's called
Viral Hyperteloric Dwarfism Syndrome, VHDS for short. Denver Dwarf or Fish-Eye Dwarf or just plain Spud to the masses. My
eyes are set wide and bulge almost beyond my ears. Aside from the obvious aesthetic handicap (the currently correct term for
ugly), it makes it difficult for me to see anything directly in front of me. I tend to swing my head slightly from side to
side, to get my visual fields to overlap and create a bit of depth perception.

Half of us were
born profoundly retarded. Those of us who can learn to dress ourselves and use the toilet are saddled with a grab bag of learning
disabilities. With undersized jaws and stubby legs, we’re the poster children for tragic disability. We tend to get
locked into the role. I spent most of my early years listening to the taunts of Normie children and the oh-so-concerned assessments
of Normie doctors and social workers who looked out for my 'special needs' while condemning me to the tender mercies
of the city welfare homes and their dead end vocational training. I wasn't about to hang around and listen to some Normie
with a major case of the uglies tell me I was too short.

The sun was warm for early fall. The rain
had blown through just before dawn and the sidewalks steamed slightly as they heated up. My sock was still slick with pigeon
shit, my shirt was soaked with sweat from the heat of Charlie's oven and a pounding headache behind my right eye caused
me to wince with each heartbeat. A headache started whenever I got angry, which is to say, just about every day.

I hobbled along, fuming and muttering, for about three blocks before I noticed that he was still behind me. I stopped
and glared. It was one of my best looks, guaranteed to frighten housewives and give children nightmares. Charlie just grinned.

"Well?" I sneered, "You got something to say?"

"Where are
you going?" he asked. "The mechs are still around and you're not exactly invisible out here." He gestured;
I realized we were standing on the pedestrian overpass above New Lake Shore Drive, a place I usually avoided, especially when
the C.O.P.S. were sweeping the Loop. The city rose like a gleaming wall to the west. The lake was an endless blue blanket
to the east that lapped at the thin green swath of Grant Park. Between the city and the park, twelve lanes of endless traffic
flowed under perfect computer guidance up and down New Lakeshore Drive. All in all, it was a very exposed place for a desperate
criminal like myself.

"Maybe I'm going to jump. What's it to you." I demanded,
madder than ever.

"Ah, but suicide's not permitted in our obsessively safe society.
If a C.O.P. hears you talking like that, you'll be detained as a threat to your own safety." Charlie was still grinning
at some private joke.

"So? What's it to you?" I shouted.

"You
still haven't answered the central question, Horatio," he said. His voice changed to a deeper almost reverent tone.
" 'To be or not to be, that is the question. Whether 'tis nobler in the mind to suffer the slings and arrows
of outrageous fortune or to take arms against a sea of troubles and by opposing end them. To die, to sleep no more, and by
a sleep to say we end the heartaches and the thousand natural shocks that flesh is heir to. 'Tis a consummation devoutly
to be wished.'"

He chuckled and looked at me expectantly. For the first time I really saw
him: an absolutely absurd old man quoting from a play not one Normie in a hundred would recognize. And all the while standing
above a river of them rushing home to their VR game shows and soap operas in nonpolluting government-certified-safe computer
controlled cars. I choked. I sputtered. Something burst inside me and blew away the anger. I laughed. Charlie joined in with
a deep belly laugh.

After a while we managed to control ourselves. Despite the risk, I remained
standing in the middle of the overpass looking down on the rushing river of traffic. Even then, only a few minutes after our
first meeting, I felt safe in Charlie's shadow. Not that I would have admitted needing anything like protection or safety
at that point in my life. I watched the brightly colored cars whizzing beneath our feet, all moving smoothly in their appointed
lanes, all properly spaced for maximum safety and efficiency. My face grew hot again. I stood on my toes and spat over the
barrier onto the roadway below.

Charlie looked down at me with a slight smile on his face.
"Come on," he said. "We need to get you out of sight for a while."

"We?"
I asked.

He just nodded and pointed back the way we had come. The C.O.P.S. hovercraft was turning the corner onto Michigan,
continuing the sweep of the Loop, looking for Blanks and Transients. I tried to duck behind the hotbox but Charlie just waved
me on across the overpass.

" 'Wisely and slow; they stumble that run fast.'"
he said, quoting again. We walked steadily, careful not to run or look too hurried. Just a couple of Citizens going about
their legitimate, productive and certified safe business.

Grant Park was not crowded this early in
the morning. A few joggers and exercise freaks puffed along on the lakefront paths. The fountain was off and a cleaning servo
hummed busily as it scraped algae from the collecting basin under the ornate spouts. Charlie looked a bit out of place, pushing
a vendor’s cart with no one around to buy his wares, but it didn't seem to worry him. He was, after all, a fully
franchised Citizen, and had every right to walk wherever he chose. I scurried along beside him, trying not to be too obvious
about keeping him between me and the hovercraft. The sun climbed higher, drying my damp shirt, its warmth allaying the chill
of sweat and fear that still lingered.

Charlie parked his cart under a tree near the broad steps that
led down to the waterfront. The quay here had once been part of the old Chicago Yacht Club; the club buildings were condemned
and taken over by Parks and Rec before I was born. Now the city ran the place as an elderly day care and recreation center.
The Seasoned Citizens who spent their days here were kept away from the water lest one of them decide to take a long walk
off one of the short piers that remained from the yachting days. Few of them were about at this time of day. Those that looked
down from the dayroom windows watched us with the blank stares of seasoned inmates.

We walked north
along the quay until it ended in a high wall. The wall was part of the breakwater that jutted out into Lake Michigan to the
east; its western end merged with the retaining wall that supported New Lake Shore Drive in its sweep northward toward the
rich Normie suburbs. Under the shadow of the elevated highway was an access gate for the storm drains that ran west to the
Chicago River. The gate was locked, of course. The heavy steel bars fit almost seamlessly into a thick concrete lip all around
the opening. A palm reader was set into the wall next to the gate, and just below the reader was an interface port for the
maintenance servos to download their work programs.

Charlie pulled a small oblong box out of
the pocket of his coveralls. He pointed it at the interface port and tapped a code into a small keyboard on top of the box.
The gate slid back with a squeal of metal on concrete.

"Are you crazy?" I shouted. "An
open gate will light up every C.O.P. alarm circuit from here to Wilmette."

"Not if
it's an authorized inspection," said Charlie, sliding the box back into his pocket. He pulled a disc the size of
my palm out of the same pocket and tossed it in my general direction. I bobbled it once, but managed to catch it before it
hit the ground. Charlie grunted as if I had passed some sort of test. "I once did a courtesy for a civil engineer on
the Public Works planning committee. He gave me the access codes for the storm drain maintenance gates in return. It makes
it easier to get around town without attracting attention.

"The disc is a directional homer.
Set the city grid coordinates of the location you wish in the LED display and it will guide you there. Follow the red arrow
on the display; it will change directions when it wants you to turn. If you take a wrong turn, the disc will vibrate."
He paused for a second. I nodded my understanding and he went on, "This tunnel runs west as far as the river. There are
side tunnels every 50 meters or so; take the third tunnel to the left. Go about 800 meters to the end of that tunnel. There
will be a series of pipes along the wall to the right; behind the smallest pipe, near the bottom, is a handle. Pull up on
the handle and you'll release a ladder from the access port at street level."

"Wait a
minute, Chuck," I said. "You don't expect me to go in there."

"Desperate
situations ‘by desperate appliance are remedied, or else not at all'", said Charlie in his quotation voice
again. "It's either this or you take your chances in the Loop with the sweepers. And, by the way, my friends call
me Charlie."

"Yeah, that's nice," I said. "Guys like me, we got no
friends, OK, Chuckster? And I'm still not going in there."

"Suit yourself,"
he said, shrugging his shoulders. He turned and began to walk away.

"Wait!" I called,
looking dubiously at the open gate. "How am I supposed to find my way in there? I got no light."

"I
have no light," Charlie corrected. "Here, take this one." He reached into that magic pocket of his and pulled
out a cheap button flash, the kind they give away in the arcades when you win ten credits on a VR game. It clipped itself
to the button of my jacket when Charlie touched it there. It cast a pale greenish light ahead of me. These flashes usually
lasted about 30 minutes after they were activated. I hoped I wouldn't have too far to walk.

"What
are you, some kind grammar police or something," I grumbled as he attached the flash. "What do you care how I talk?
And why are you always quoting Shakespeare? If you ask me, you've got a few circuits scrambled."

"The
fact that you recognize Shakespeare when you hear him quoted shows that you know how to speak properly. Your current situation
is no excuse for sloppy thinking or speaking," said Charlie. "When you reach the ladder, climb up to street level.
The access port is in a blind alley. Go west to the entrance of the alley, turn right, and enter the first building. It's
a three flat. My place is on the first floor, number 2. The disc also carries the lock code. It will open the door. Make yourself
at home. I have business here in the Loop, but I should be home before dusk."

"What's
in this for you?" I asked. "Is this your weekly Help-the-Handicapped fix? Nobody gets something for nothing, so
what's this going to cost me?"

"Let's just say that I hate to see wasted
potential," said Charlie. "Don't worry. If and when I ask for payment, it won't be too difficult for you.
And don't think this is some kind of kinky sexual bondage thing. You're not my type. Now get along. I have other souls
to save."

His wry smile told me that he was only half joking. I stepped through the
gate into the drain. The metal grating slid smoothly shut behind me, the snick of the lock sounding disconcertingly final.
I looked back through the bars at Charlie. He waved cheerily and walked away toward the quay, whistling a complicated tune
with lots of trills and sliding notes. I tried to swallow my fear but my mouth was too dry. I started putting one foot in
front of the other. Just doing that helped a little, as did the cold water that quickly soaked through my sock and chilled
my toes. Despite being small, I have never liked tight spaces. Tight dark spaces were even higher on my list of things to
be avoided.

The feeble light of the button flash only went so far; my view was limited to the meter or so directly in front of
my nose. Everything looked pale and washed out, like the world on a moonlit night. Down the center of the drain trickled a
thin stream of water, flowing in the same direction that I walked, toward the river. If I planted my feet on either side of
the trickle I could walk on dry concrete. After a while, though, the unnatural gait became tiring. I gave up and splashed
through the water, my sock becoming wetter with each step.

As my eyes adjusted to the gloom, some
of my initial fear subsided. I wasn't happy, but at least the pounding in my head eased a bit as my heart stopped trying
to climb out of my chest.

By the time I reached the third side tunnel I was almost calm. The walk
had taken all of fifteen minutes and I figured I had plenty of light left in the flash for the rest of the trip.

The disc in my hand vibrated slightly as I almost walked past my turn. I looked at the LED display and, sure enough,
the arrow now pointed to the left. This tunnel was smaller than the main drain. Charlie would have had to walk almost doubled
over at the waist to get through. The concrete ceiling barely brushed the curls on the top of my head. I took a step into
the tunnel, then froze, the fear rising up from its hiding place somewhere deep inside me. From the darkness ahead came a
dry rustling sound like dead leaves driven before the wind, like winter-bare trees waving in a cold breeze. Like dry bones
rattling on a concrete floor? I put my hands out and pressed against the sides of the narrow tunnel, certain that they were
drawing closer around me. I sobbed and pushed back with all my strength.